


teenage shitiot

by Voidromeda



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - High School, Biphobia, Boys Kissing, Kissing, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Stream of Consciousness, Teen Angst, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidromeda/pseuds/Voidromeda
Summary: "Suicide's for losers, don't'cha think?"Praxis is in love with Cain, and hates himself for it.





	teenage shitiot

**Author's Note:**

> Biphobia is very light, only mentioned in one or two sentences. Not the theme of fic.

If Praxis is to ever be honest, and he frequently is, he will admit to one thing:

Falling in love with a shit bastard like Cain is the worst thing he has ever done in his entire fucking life and he wants to take it back.

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, of course. No one ever intends to fall in love, least of all with a teenage dirtbag who smokes foul-smelling cigars and has a breath reeking of alcohol and meat. It is the smell of meat and food that gets to him, not the booze, and Praxis hates that Cain likes to lean over and breathe on him just to see him recoil in disgust.

Every single part about Cain is trash, and he hates himself for falling in love with it. He hates every single cell in Cain’s body, hates the way his hair falls to frame his face, the way his lips curl up into a smug, cocky grin, and hates the way his eyes glint just before he tries to torment Praxis or push at his buttons. He hates the flush that spreads on his face and down his neck when he drinks too much, hates the way he sits on Praxis’ lap and leaves bruises and bites on his neck only to then laugh at him the next day. He hates this teenage shitbag with every inch of his being, but he hates himself more.

* * *

Deimos smiles at him, far too sweetly in spite of his vacant, dull gaze. Praxis tries not to look into his eyes as he cleans his wounds and patches him up, his gaze wandering everywhere but, and gently pats Deimos’ shoulders when he is done. The other shifts away from him, his lips flattening back into a line when Praxis isn’t paying attention to him anymore, and his hands hover near Deimos’ back as the other slides off of his bed and walks over to the door. Cain sits in his computer chair, one leg on his desk and the other on the chair, and he looks frankly ridiculous like that. He sways his foot left to right, staring at painted nails, and his expression is empty for once.

Blood cakes his forehead, cuts cover his arms, and he looks worse than shit. Praxis has to drag him over onto his bed just to patch him up, and Cain stares down at him with slowly growing smug grin. The glow in his eyes are dim, low, not matching the strained smile splitting his face and they are quick to hide beneath a curtain of his hair as Cain tilts his head to the side. He looks down at the first aid kit on his lap, then back up to get to cleaning out the cuts and blood, ignoring the hisses that slip from grit teeth and the pang in his chest that follows.

“Why do you always get into fights?” Praxis asks thoughtlessly. “You’re always angry at someone, something somehow. You’re _always_ getting in a fight. How are you going to try and graduate from high school like this? You –”

“If I wanted to listen to a fuckin’ lecture,” Cain drawls out, interrupting him, “I would’ve gone to Abel’s place an’ listened to his pretty mom bitch at me. At least she had somethin’ nice for me to look at, and isn’t a cyclops freak.”

He tends to Cain in silence. He glares at him every time their eyes meet, but he keeps at it. He drags the alcohol-soaked cotton onto him, drags his thumbnail into a shallow cut just to make it sting, and the pang in his heart is gone every time Cain makes a sound like a wounded dog. He bitches at Praxis and his words go in one ear and out the other, none of his complaints registering because Cain isn’t doing anything about it. He knows better than to bite the hand that feeds him.

When Praxis is done, he stands up and Cain is quick to follow suit. Just as he is about to swagger out, Praxis grabs his shoulder and turns him around.

“What –” Cain begins and ends when Praxis lets his punch fly and land square in his cheek. Later, Praxis has to take care of Cain again just before his own parents come home, but he doesn’t get the time to do it for himself and his dad has to be the one to patch him up. His glare makes Praxis shrink but he doesn’t say anything and neither does his other dad, who merely cooks dinner for them and then later dismisses him when they all finish their meals.

Cain grabs him the next day, pins him against a shadowed wall near their school, and kisses him hard. He bites his lip, makes blood spill over, and laps it all. Hate boils underneath his skin, rage crackling like lightning, and yet Praxis lets Cain manhandle him despite the both of them knowing that he has more pure, raw strength than the other. Hands bury in his hair, tug his head back, and Cain sinks teeth into his neck until he breaks through skin.

Praxis hisses. “What are you, a vampire?” he snaps out. Cain licks the blood clean, kisses his new injury, and then backs away. He doesn’t say anything and his face is lacking its wide, terrible smile. His eyes drag up and down Praxis, gaze accusatory and judging, trying to strip him bare, and he pushes Cain back. He fixes his clothes up, doesn’t meet the dark, dull eyes of the shitstain before him, and he makes his leave without Cain even making a peep about it.

His neck hurts the entire day.

* * *

Praxis wants to say he has good friends. Ethos and Abel definitely are good friends, wonderful even. They are smart, kind, help him with studying, and always take the time to explain concepts to him that he doesn’t understand. Abel is enthusiastic, and Ethos is a great tutor when he wants to be. Praxis wants to say that, yes, he does have good friends.

It is hard to say that when his other friends are Cain and Deimos, however. The latter isn’t necessarily bad, though there are many who will argue that the mousy boy is a sick sociopath who deserves to be thrown into prison just because he has a knife collection. People whisper about how creepy and disturbing Deimos is, painting him as though he is a serial killer instead of… a teenager. Like the rest of them. _Psychoslut,_ they whisper, _how many people do you think have fucked him?_ Praxis wants to answer it for them: one, and it is the very bastard his heart beats far too quickly for.

Cain’s rumours are worse.

There are many rumours that call him a _whore._ Going around spreading his legs for anyone willing or fucking anything that moves – discussing his body, his sexual habits, who he fucks, whether he is _gay or bisexual, and if he’s bisexual will he do a threesome? Why date him, he’ll just cheat on you with the opposite sex._ A lot of people talk about how he is a gangster’s toy, how dangerous he is, how his parents are actually dead and he is only pretending that they are always busy. Some of them even call him a parent fucker when they mention them being alive, a sick incestuous freak.

Every single one of them are disgusting, vulgar. He hears people talk in extreme detail about things no one needs to talk about and Praxis sees red, always has to hold himself back from just throwing himself at these people with nothing but time to waste. Abel smiles at him awkwardly. Ethos almost seems sorry – then he gives Praxis a grin that makes his stomach flip and his heart leap up into his throat, choking him.

“Don’t think about it too much,” Ethos says, “Cain doesn’t.”

And he’s not wrong.

Cain acts like no one talks about him. Cain smokes in the school hallways and lets people gossip and spread shit that ain’t true, then runs from the principal, teachers, anyone when they catch him in the act. Cain brings beer cans to school and drinks them in the school cafeteria and doesn’t give a shit that he is breaking school rules. His breath reeks of booze and vomit, and Praxis still lets him press his lips to his throat and leave more marks behind.

He steals his second dad’s makeup to cover up his hickeys.

* * *

There is someone knocking at his window and Praxis, drifting in and out of sleep, thinks that he may be imagining things. His eyes open and he stares up at the ceiling despite his vision being overtaken by darkness before he then closes his eyes to go back to sleep. The knock turns into one powerful slam that has Praxis rocketing upwards and out of his bed, stumbling over his own blanket and nearly slamming down into his desk. He opens his window, gaze blurry and head spinning, and he rasps out a rough, hoarse, _“what?”_ to the stranger out there.

“S’just gonna open it up for me? Shit, what if I was a serial rapist, huh?” a familiar voice says sneeringly and that wakes him up almost immediately. He blinks a few times and yelps when a heavy body comes crashing into him, forcing him off-balance and he very nearly brings both him and Cain down onto the floor. His attempt to stay upright is for nothing, however, as Cain just pushes him down, down, down until he is laying on his back and he is pinning Praxis down with his body. Strong thighs flex on either side of his hips, Cain’s face vaguely making itself known as his eyes adjust to the dark, and he glares up at the brat straddling him.

“What are you doing?” Praxis hisses. Cain bends down and sinks his nails into his shoulders then drags them down his arms, and Praxis curses himself for wearing a tank top to sleep. “Go _home._ Go to _bed._ ”

He lets all of his weight fall onto Praxis and he lets out a soft moan of pain – Cain is fucking heavy. He scoots back a little, letting Praxis sit up, and he opens his mouth to say something only to stiffen up when Cain throws his arms around him and holds onto him tightly.

All the oxygen escapes his lungs in one, heavy exhale. His eyes are wide, his hands tremble, and he can hear the way his heart slams up against his ribcage. Cain buries his face into his shoulder, shifts around, and then settles down onto his lap once he is in a better position. Praxis’ breath stutters in and out of him, the air never enough to let him breathe normally, and Cain holds onto him like that. His hands come up to sink into his hair, fingers curling up into tight fists, and Praxis thinks he feels Cain quivering.

There is no sound. No noise. The only thing he hears are the rattling of his bones and the panicked rush of blood in his veins and arteries. It takes him far too long to lift his own arms up and return Cain’s embrace, to hug him tight and press his body close against his. Nothing about Cain is delicate – his body is broad, strong, muscular, just like Praxis. He isn’t frail, slender, or anything like that – not skinny, not fat, not average. He breathes in the scent of spicy, sharp shampoo from his bird’s nest of hair, and feels every part of him calm down when Cain doesn’t do anything else but hug him.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there in silence, holding onto each other, but exhaustion hits him soon enough – heavy and uncomfortable, dragging at his eyelids and at his body, and begging for sleep. Praxis has to force himself away from Cain and his heart shatters when the other chases after him. “I have to go to sleep, I’m tired.” he tries gently and Cain looks at him with big, wild eyes and a sneer soon overtakes his expression. He opens his mouth then closes it, slips his hands out of Praxis’ hair and just stares at him for a long, long time.

Then he brings his hand up and strokes the scar running across Praxis’ eye, index gently trailing his eyelids, and every single cell in his body goes into alert. Cain’s expression is unreadable, equal parts pensive and hiding in the dark, and Praxis holds his breath.

“Ye’re not ugly, y’know.” Cain softly says after some time. “You’re so damn beautiful. Issa shame.”

“What is?” Praxis asks.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to his scarred eyelids, lingering, and Praxis gasps. Cain gets off his lap soon enough, his movements awkward and as if this body isn’t his, and Praxis’ mind races. He needs to say something, anything, as Cain backs away and heads towards his window. His tongue dries in his mouth, throat rubbing raw with each swallow, and his stomach flips and clenches as nausea hits him. Bile rises up to his throat and he swallows it down every time. He opens his mouth.

“Wait—”

Cain is gone.

* * *

Being alone with Cain is awkward now. He doesn’t seem to think so, but Praxis definitely feels that way – he tries to avoid being alone with Cain as often as possible, almost always bringing Deimos with them much to his delight. He can never tell if it is because he is happy to be with Cain or to be with him, despite the fact that the former doesn’t seem to care about Deimos’ existence and Praxis never knows how to talk to him. It doesn’t matter, however, as long as he can avoid being with Cain and _only_ Cain.

He hangs out with Abel and listens to him talk about his one-sided crush on someone else, staying quiet about it because he thinks he knows who it is. He takes the time to hang out with Ethos and listens to him, absentmindedly, talk about linguistics and languages, and helps him with his Russian when he can. He befriends Athos and finds him surprisingly energetic, talking on and on about his passions while dragging Praxis into them. He does everything but be with Cain, not wanting to panic and let his feelings humiliate him right in front of the other.

Cain is relentless and cruel; he knows how he gets with feelings, with love and emotions and all that ‘prissy, sissy shit’. Many of his exes hate him, dating him only to leave when they realise how vitriolic Cain is. He can feel the frustration rolling off of Cain in waves when he realises that Praxis is adamant on avoiding him, and his anger manifests in him getting into fistfights on and off school grounds. His suspension comes quick, surprising Praxis with the fact that Keeler doesn’t just expel him, and he won’t be in school for two weeks.

And he isn’t, much to his surprise. He actually follows the rules and stays far, far away from the school. When he asks Deimos about it, he gets a wordless shrug, an empty stare, and a strained smile. School feels emptier without Cain around. [He will never admit this to anyone.]

Yet, even with him wanting to run as far from Cain as he can, he opens his window when he hears a knock on it. He lets Cain in, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and making him incapable of a greeting when the other stumbles into his room, and Praxis sits down at his desk again to go back to studying.

“Don’t distract me,” he says and finally forces out of his dry mouth, “I’m going to work on my homework, and if you don’t want another fight then just sit down and don’t be noisy.” he expects retaliation. He expects Cain to snort and laugh at him, sneer and jeer. He expects _something._ Instead, the only response he gets is the squeaking of his bed and subsequent snoring, so soft that he almost misses it, and Praxis’ hand stills. A moment passes. Maybe two, three. Then he gets back to writing, checking and double-checking his work to make sure it is correct. He sends pictures of his work to Ethos and Abel, just to check with them and see if they are right, and it continues on like that.

Cain sleeps in his bed, gently snoring, shoes still on, and Praxis considers taking them off for him. He wakes up when he gets close, sits up immediately, and stares at Praxis wide-eyed and awake, alert. For a second, he feels less like a person and more like a predator staring prey down, Cain’s movements as skittish as a colt before he remembers who Praxis is and calms down near immediately.

He swallows. Cain stares at his throat. All of his hickeys are gone by now, his skin clean and unmarred by Cain’s mouth, teeth, possessiveness. He reaches out to Praxis and his hand freezes then comes to rest on his throat when he bends in closer to Cain. He lets him wrap both hands around his neck, lets him tug him down onto the bed and straddle his hips, and they look into each other’s eyes. His fingers merely rest on his throat, feeling his pulse, and they never once squeeze though they do twitch intermittently. He exhales heavily.

Cain rocks down onto him.

“Hey,” he says, voice far away, teeth sharp as his lips pull back and curl up into a shark’s grin, “don’t’cha think suicide’s for losers?” he asks.

It takes a few moments for Praxis’ throat to work again, his voice pathetically high-pitched when he lets out a far too loud, _“what?”_ in response. Cain shifts on his lap, his hands settling down on his chest, fingers splaying out over his heart, and he wonders if he can feel it. If he can feel the way his heart speeds up and knows that it happens every time Cain is around.

He fucking hates him so much.

“I said,” Cain’s voice is still so distant, his eyes glazed over, “don’t’cha think suicide’s for losers?”

“Cain,”

“It is, isn’t it? Everyone’s that scared’a livin’ offs ‘emselves ‘cause they don’t know what else to do–”

“How can you judge–”

“Suicide’s for losers.” Cain’s smile never falters. He bends down, his breath mingling with Praxis’, his heart curtaining his face and stroking along his cheeks, and Cain kisses him, for a second. Chaste. Quick. Gone. Almost as if it never happens in the first place. A far cry from his typical, possessive, obsessive kisses.

He puts his hands on Cain’s shoulders. “What are you thinking about? What are you talking about? _Cain._ Get out of—”

“Suicide’s for losers.” he interrupts, then gives him another chaste kiss. His eyes shine bright, eyelashes long and beautiful, lips pressing together in an almost loving smile.

“Wanna do it together?”

**Author's Note:**

> [ Pillowfort ](https://www.pillowfort.social/transistor) | [ Tumblr. ](https://transistories.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [ Notes for the fic. ](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/766981)


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